I remember the sound of the Di 3 locomotive. No, I cannot describe it with words, and obviously I cannot by any means recreate that sound (“language can only praise, but not reproduce, the beauty that appeals to the senses,” wrote Thomas Mann). But my recollection is vivid. I imagine that locomotive in a train station, and the hum of the idling engine permeates my memory. But it’s not only the sound of the engine that fills my mind, it’s other sounds, too, related sounds. It’s the ambience of the train station, all those audio tidbits, whether I choose to let it be a small and humble wooden station building on a wintry Norwegian mountain pass, or I choose to let it be the bustle of a Central European cast iron train terminal marvel. (In Japanese there is a word — Eki-tetsu — that refers to enthusiasts of train station architecture. It’s a sad culture, isn’t it, if there’s no word for enthusiasts of train station architecture?) My heart beats a little faster when somebody announces a departure over the speakers, and the announcement is made in a language I don’t understand. I can see a cafeteria way over there at the far end — one could sit down and have a croissant and a cup of strong coffee, or Earl Grey perhaps, and watch people pass by, people who are going places, people who’ve arrived. Somebody is saying their farewells on the platform. A conductor blows his whistle. The whirr of the locomotive changes, there’s a whining of moving wheels, knocks of metal…
